


Wilting and Blooming

by festeringfae



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Protective Siblings, Self-Hatred, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/festeringfae/pseuds/festeringfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loras and Margaery struggle to reconcile their personal wishes with their political reality. Showverse. An attempt to flesh out the dynamic of House Tyrell despite its limited screen time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter takes place just after this deleted scene (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-m1-xPObOLk) It's not necessary to watch it to understand what's going on, but it will definitely help! Also, it's just an amazing scene.
> 
> Since Natalie Dormer is 6 years older than Finn Jones, I interpret Margaery as being older than Loras in showverse.
> 
> Thanks to Sisky and Kat for betaing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“We don’t have time for this,” Margaery had told Loras back in the Stormlands. Now, they didn’t have much time either, Margaery knew. But this was for the best. Better for Loras to feel all the emotions he’d meticulously kept restrained for weeks now, to refresh himself, than to lose control in front of an audience. It was a tactical move, really.

 It was absolutely alright to hold her baby brother while he sobbed, she told herself. For awhile, she whispered “shhhh,” as she rubbed his back. But then, she thought, Loras had been shushed enough. The silence made her antsy, though, and her skin crawled beneath the weight of Loras’ pain. She was supporting him physically, and she’d try her best to support him in other ways, but she couldn’t rub relief into his back. She couldn’t change anything to make him feel better. She couldn’t manipulate a dead man back to life.

 Margaery’s eyes fell on Renly’s armor.She’d shaken her head in wonderment when they’d told her how the smallfolk had believed Renly’s shade had come forth to lead them into battle, but it didn’t seem so ridiculous now. The metal had a presence about it, the ripped gorget just subtle enough to be sinister. Behind the closed visor, Margaery could almost feel a pair of dead eyes on her.

 She prayed to the Smith to melt the armor before her eyes. Then, she prayed to the Warrior in hasty apology. Loras should have buried him in it, he absolutely should have, but there would be no parting him from it now. Margaery tightened her grip on her brother’s shoulders. She wanted to pray to the Maiden to look down on them kindly.  Surely, of any of the Seven, it was The Maiden who would look down and grant mercy to one who’d lost a forbidden love. But Margaery feared to ask anything of that idol, even as she held Loras and his grief.  Lots of women lied on Maiden’s Day, but Margaery wasn’t sure she could placate gods as easily as people. The Maiden might look down on her, arms wrapped around her brother, and take her godly wrath out on him. It wasn’t worth the risk.

 Loras had grown quieter in her arms, though his breath was still unsteady. He wasn’t crying any longer.

 Margaery didn’t let go. She stroked his curls for awhile. His neck smelled the same as it had the day he’d left for Storm’s End--she’d hugged him almost this long, then. The memory was grounding. They’d both been upset then, too, but they grew stronger from it. Loras’ relationship with Renly had even blossomed from it. Margaery felt the phantom eyes behind his armor moving over her again, and her stomach tightened. She turned her cheek so that she wouldn’t have to look at it.  

 The movement prompted Loras to draw back. For a moment, Margaery panicked. Did he think she was pulling away from _him_? She still couldn't believe what he said earlier, that he "knew" she thought he was a fool. She'd never met anyone as shrewd as he was, apart from Grandmother. How could he--but then she saw his expression.

 Loras faced her calmly, face as still and clouded as tepid water. “I’ll do it,” he said.

 “What?”

 He took a huff of breath. “I shall present you to King Joffrey of the House Lannister, First of His Name,  King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

 It felt like stepping onto ice when Margaery said, gently, “Baratheon. Of the House Baratheon.”

 Loras sighed. From his expression, it struck Margaery that he might have said “Lannister” on purpose. “Baratheon, yes, of course,” he said dully.

 Margaery felt a lump rising in her throat. Loras had put his mask on again. She knew it was essential that he wear it, that it’s what she had asked for, that it was ultimately best for the family... but it made his eyes as empty as a doll’s. She wanted to hug him again, to shield him from the world, to hold him while he cried all day and to fight anyone who tried to stop him. She wanted to _kill_ Brienne of Tarth, or Stannis--whoever would make Loras the happiest. Whoever took his happiness away in the first place.

 But she couldn’t do that. She could only smile, and be polite, and weave fantasies into Joffrey Baratheon’s head like a seamstress wove her dipping neckline. She knew how to light up a room, and today, she swore she would shine so bright that no one could see Loras’ gloom against her glare.That was one way she could protect him, and she vowed to every god that she would keep him safe, no matter what.

 Strengthened by her determination, Margaery picked up the tray again and thrust it at him. “Eat,” she commanded her little brother _. And get rid of that damned armor,_ she allowed herself think, before marching out of the tent.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was absurd, to know he could be utterly abysmal at a game and get the same results he got when he was skilled. It was infuriating. But anything was better than being left idle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to poeticretellings for proofreading

Court life had always suited Loras well enough. It could be trying, sometimes. Dull, even, when people were too easy to read. But on the whole, figuring out exactly what a person wanted to hear and watching them light up was an amusing, even gratifying, pastime. The yard trained Loras in physicality; court honed his mind.

He used to be great at both.

It wasn’t as if the fabrications necessary for court life were difficult. Before, politics had come to Loras as instinctively as his stance in the yard. One didn’t think about where they put their feet unless they committed a misstep; lies of omission were much the same.

If deceit was a type of sparring, it now felt as if Loras was limping. He was conscious of every movement that he made. Any words, true or false, felt false and clunky on his tongue. His lips strained when he smiled. He gave the blandest answers in a voice too tight to truly be chipper.

Yet, everyone swallowed them like marmalade. No one noticed, because really: no one cared.

It was absurd, to know he could be utterly abysmal at a game and get the same results he got when he was skilled. It was infuriating. But anything was better than being left idle, even as he craved solitude.

Anything was better than having time enough to think.

Margaery made him think. Her eyes were full of worry whenever she looked at him. She tried to hide her anxiety beneath tentative smiles, but she wasn’t very good at it. She hadn’t lost her touch, though, not the way he had. Margaery only had problems fooling him, and fooling others was what was really important.

Anyone else would never have noticed that Margaery was anxious when she received Loras that evening. The handmaiden who let Loras inside his sister’s chamber didn’t seem frazzled at all, like some might when preparing their lady for an important dinner. Margaery herself was gazing at her reflection in a looking glass with an almost disinterested expression. Her eyes filled with their usual worry when she greeted Loras, but it was only a moment before she glanced back at the mirror and tugged at her gown. She was concerned about him, but tonight, she was mostly concerned about him for her own sake.

They were both about to take supper with the king and Cersei. Whisperers told tales of King Joffrey’s cruelty, particularly toward his last intended. These rumors didn’t particularly matter to Margaery-- or so she insisted-- but nonetheless, Grandmother had arranged for all of Margaery’s activities with Joffrey to be heavily supervised. Tonight would be the first time they met in a somewhat informal setting. Loras was chaperoning, and-- according to Grandmother-- serving as a guard. Either way, it would be ruinous for Loras to catch a sudden “head cold” at dinner.

His sister’s worry vexed him, but the knowledge that most of it was just about the evening in general grounded him. It was soothing, to have a familiar problem, and one worthy of his time. There was still _something_ he could fix.  

“You look beautiful,” Loras told her, and smiled.

It was a more genuine smile than he’d given in weeks, and Margaery returned it with one of her own-- soft and sweet. “Thank you.” But then she turned back towards the mirror again, and adjusted a curl that looked perfectly fine where it had been.

She was wearing a light blue dress that opened across each hip. Margaery always showed skin when she needed to push advantage: any distraction, no matter how slight, could be helpful. In truth, Loras knew she owned more revealing gowns, but this one gave the illusion of being very exposed more than some of her subtler gowns with deeper necklines. Skin was armor to Margaery, and she must be very nervous if she dressed so protectively.

That wouldn’t do. He stepped forward, arms extended as if to embrace her, then gave her a little twirl when she lifted her arms in kind. Margaery yelped in surprise, giggled, and swatted at him.

“Whatever was that for?” She smoothed down her skirt again and poked at her hair, but it was brisker now, natural-- she saw flaws she knew were there and fixed them, instead of fussing over phantom ones she might have missed.

“Does a little brother need motive to be a pest?” Loras plunked down onto a sofa. “Have your girl bring me some wine.”

Margaery’s expression shifted. Loras wasn’t sure what it meant until she asked, “Before dinner?”

She said it in her ‘show voice’-- the voice she used on others, the voice high and tight enough to  reign in its owner’s anxiety or displeasure.

He scoffed. “Gods, Margaery, precisely how drunk do you expect me to get in a quarter of an hour? Are you afraid I’ll chug the flagon?”

Margaery looked at the floor. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

He couldn’t reprimand her now. They couldn’t afford to have her preoccupied when they were meeting the Lannisters so soon. She needed to stay focused. He took a deep breath. “No,” Loras forced himself to say, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have snapped.” He snorted. “Besides, you’ve never supped with Cersei before; you ought to have a glass yourself.”

“Loras!” cried Margaery, but her eyes were twinkling.

“Oooo, is _Grandmother_ listening?” Loras got off the couch and wiggled his fingers in his sister’s face .“‘The spiders, the spiders, Margaery, they can always hear!’’”  

“ _Stop_ it! They _can_!”  laughed Margaery, shoving him away. “Aisling! Bring my insufferable brother a drink!”

The handmaiden who let him into the chamber hurried forward and poured Loras a goblet of wine as he sat down on the sofa again.

“One for you as well, my lady?” the handmaiden asked. Loras smirked.

“No, thank you, Aisling,” Margaery said primly. “And thank you for your forethought today. Please see to it that remains of that dress are put to some good use.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Margaery sat down as she continued. “We’ll be leaving in a few moments, so you may retire for the evening, though please be sure to send someone to prepare me for bed in a few hours.”

Aisling curtsied, thanked her, and left.

“What was that about?” Loras wanted to know.

“I soiled a gown in Flea Bottom today; poor girl, she did her duty by trying to stop me, but you can’t reach with the common people if they can’t see a bit of themselves in you.” She leaned forward and took a sip from Loras’ goblet.

Loras raised an eyebrow. “And how were you reaching the common people today?”

“Mhm, I’m glad you asked, I meant to bring it up,” Margaery asked, sitting back up. “I stopped at an orphanage coming back from the sept this morning-- it’s probably something we should focus on at the meal.”

“Alright.” This, too, was something that didn’t daunt him.  No daughter would ever need convincing to marry the handsome young heir to Highgarden-- Loras took a swig of wine-- but a girl with a young name could never be oversold. He was no stranger to puffing up Margaery in the sight of some powerful suitor.

Though he hadn’t had to do it for awhile, he realized. He took another drink.

“What was the state of the orphanage?” Loras asked, to distract himself.

Immediately, he knew it was the wrong thing to ask. Margaery’s eyes flashed:

“ _Appalling_. There weren’t any chairs on which to sit, not even for me, let alone the children. I can’t imagine where they slept, there were no pallets anywhere, and they were _filthy_. What sort of lord doesn’t tend to the helpless children in his own city?”

“What _lord_ indeed.” It was smart of her, to phrase it that way, but it still tread too closely to who they were about to sup with.

Margaery used the smile she employed to cover her tracks.  Loras was relieved she used it instinctively. “Of course it wasn’t all bad, the children were darlings,” she said. “You ought to have seen the look on this little boy’s face when Aisling handed him a toy.”

“Ah, so you planned on visiting?” Grandmother had a hand in that, no doubt.

This time, Margaery glanced down, even if quickly. Loras doubted anyone else would notice, but… “I always find it best to visit the people of a city, and give them gifts for their hospitality,” Margaery said, timidly. She looked down again, and blushed prettily. “And here, why, if I am to be their queen, they must know me, of course.”

It was a good save, and Loras could tell by the way genuine curve of her smile that Margaery knew it. He smiled back at her. Her answer had embraced the implicit accusation that the charity was done for political gain, and made gaining political clout sound like an act of charity within itself.

She was ready, clearly. More than ready. He’d seen R-- _people_ insult Joffrey to his face more than half a hundred times, and the boy never registered it. Surely, the dynamics of politics were lost on him. Margaery would charm him easily. The wedding would go flawlessly. She’d give him a boy on her first try, with golden hair, undeniably his. She’d rule, through him, coaxing him with a kind word and a flutter of her eyelashes, wasting her gifts trying to get a spoiled brat to behave. She deserved an equal, someone who could truly support her, someone--

Loras closed his eyes. He couldn’t think about that right now.

“Loras?” he heard Margaery ask.

Gods, now he’d done it.

He opened his eyes, and shook his head to clear it. “Just a slight headache,” he told her. “I fear my sweet sister was right about the wine.”

“Oh?” Margaery raised her eyebrows, but her mouth twitched a little-- she wanted to believe him. Still, she pressed, ever so lightly: “Are you certain?”

Loras stood up. He made a show of stretching his arms over his head, arching his back like cat. He tilted his head, as if amused by her, and offered his arm.

 “My dear sister." He forced himself to smile. “Whatever else could be wrong?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dining with Sansa and her Grandmother, Margaery grapples with her impression of Joffrey.

Grandmother wasn’t always comfort, but she was always power.

Lady Sansa, Margaery could tell, had been longing to bolt back to her Lannister lodgings for some time now. The whole time, really, but the urge grew noticeably throughout their chat, until Margaery suspected the girl might actually be fighting some kind of animal instinct to flee. Still, she stayed put. Grandmother had that effect on people.

It was nice to meet Sansa Stark, but it seemed almost a waste of time. She was going to marry Joffrey no matter what, and it would do her no good to fear him. Not underestimating him was important, but so was not overestimating him. Loras had often told her about life in King’s Landing whenever he visited Highgarden, and even before the information had become at all relevant to her, she was convinced Joffrey was a dim-witted boy ruled entirely by his own appetites. All she had to do was make sure he desired her, and she’d easily rule him, and the country to boot. Joffrey was a monster, but a monster was an animal. An animal could be tamed.

Sansa, of course, could not have been expected to do so. She had no one to protect her for an entire year, and before that, had only Ned Stark. Grandmother said Lord Eddard was a kind, honorable man, “but you know what honor’s worth. Not the sharpest blade in the armory, either, that one.”

But Sansa had to be sharp to survive in this place, Margaery knew, and strong. Never had someone gained her respect so quickly. She made a note to watch out for her, if she could, and do it fiercely. Perhaps even bring a smile to her pale face, or stop the tremble of her hands.

Sansa did make Margaery’s own fingers tremble once, though not intentionally. There was nothing willfully threatening about Sansa Stark, Margaery thought. It had been a dollop of sincere courtesy that made Margaery’s blood freeze in her veins.

Loras had arrived to escort Lady Sansa back to her chambers. As she was departing, Sansa turned back, curtsied, and said, “I almost forgot, my lady. My condolences on the loss of your late husband. I’m sure it must have been terrible for you.”

Margaery eyes were on the girl as she uttered the words, and she dared not move them over Sansa’s shoulder to see the expression on her brother’s face. “Thank you,” Margaery replied, simply. Her breath came out a little short, but she wasn’t sure Sansa noticed. If she had, it would have simply sounded like an expression of brave, contained grief.

The brave, contained grief Margaery had been exposed to sounded nothing like that, of course, but such things rarely sounded the way the songs sang them.

Sansa took Loras by the arm-- Margaery looked at him now, and he was smiling, closed lipped. His expression reminded her of the time he drank bitter wine but was determined not to make a face, because he wanted to seem like an adult. _He’s too much an adult, now._ She wished she could say something to him, but he was already turning away.

Margaery sank back in her chair as he and Sansa turned on the path, pressing her hand to her face.

“Don’t slouch,” Olenna told her.

Margaery hoisted her shoulders back into place, giving her grandmother a ruthful smile. “Forgive me-- widowhood must not agree with me.”

“Well, good then that you’re to be married again, is it not? You there, boy-- fetch us more wine.” She waved a servant away. “You are too good, my child, to mourn for a man you never loved as much as your beloved Joffrey, even having never set eyes on him. But you needn’t burden yourself with such displays.”

"Yes, Grandmother.”

“Don’t ‘yes, Grandmother,’ me, do you think I had the plates remain uncleared so I could sit about and speak to myself? I’d buy one of those atrocious talking birds from Tyrosh if I wanted to hear ‘yes, Grandmother.’ Converse with me properly.”

“I don’t believe parrots are from Tyrosh, Grandmother, they only dye their hair the same color as the feathers.”

“Marvelous, you know enough about fauna to converse casually with diplomats,” Olenna shook her head. “Your great heart is an asset, my dear, but a great head will do you better. Renly Baratheon is evidence enough of that.”

“But it wasn’t _just_ that. Father--”

“Your father is best left out of these matters, and I’m starting to think your brother is, too. I’m sure Mace didn’t get the idea to stick his nose in without help, and if one is going to plot, they should plot well.”

“He _did_ plot well,” Margaery said, squaring her shoulders. “Renly had the army, he had the numbers, he had the love of the people--”

“Ah,” said Olenna. “And what did I just say?”

Margaery looked at her.

Olenna said, “An old woman is losing her hearing, I suppose. _What did I just say, child?_ ”

“A great heart is an asset,” said Margaery with a heavy sigh, “but a great head will do you better.”

“Precisely.” Olenna took a goblet from the returning servant, and shooed him. When he was well out of earshot, she said, “Renly had enough heart to charm the smallclothes off a-- well. But for all that, nobody around him had ever ruled anything, and he himself had barely ever held a weapon. Is it any wonder?”

“I wonder,” Margaery insisted. “Even still, I wonder.”

“Don’t,” Olenna said, firmly. “Nothing of that ilk can ever bring you solace.”

Margaery looked down at the table. “It’s not my own solace I want,” she said.

Olenna lowered her own chin, just slightly. “Ah,” she said again, and closed her eyes. She shook her head, wimple fluttering in the afternoon breeze. “As I said, my dear: we must keep our heads above our hearts. Nothing else will let us grow strong.”

 They sat in silence awhile.

 “I received a summons to King Joffrey’s chambers this afternoon,” Margaery said, finally.

Olenna nodded, eyes sharp. “And are you still unafraid?”

“Why, Grandmother,” Margaery said sweetly. “Whyever would a girl fear the advances of her husband-to-be?”

The old woman looked into her granddaughter’s face as though searching it for cracks. “Very well,” she said, and slid her arm across the table, to take Margaery’s hand in her own.

_Be careful_ , the gesture said.

Margaery touched her grandmother’s face. _I will_ , she said with her fingertips. She could feel many cracks in Olenna’s face, and yet, here she was, still alive. The thought was comforting. Margaery hadn’t realized she’d needed to be comforted.

 

 The first thing Margaery noticed in Joffrey’s chambers was all the dead animals decorating the chamber.

The first thing besides the crossbow pointing at her, of course.

Joffrey greeted her warmly, and she reciprocated in kind, relieved. She praised his lovely home, how much better it was than any other place she’d been recently, that those had been no place for a lady.

“And the bedside of a traitor?” He let the words fall, as if he had dropped something heavy on the floor to get her attention. “Is that a place… for a lady?”

He said _place_ with a hiss, like a snake, slowly rising above its coils.

Fear straightened Margaery’s spine. “Your Grace…” She began, then closed her mouth. _Never keep talking when you don’t know how your sentence is going to end._ The old lesson popped into her head on instinct. She had instincts. She knew what to do, all she had to do was keep still and not lose her head.

“I tried to do my duty as a wife. That is all.” She said it firmly, but expressionlessly. She had no fright in her voice, no defensiveness. Those were the traits of the liars and the guilty. Margaery was none of that. She was solemn, for displeasing his Grace, her love, was a solemn business. But the matter of her last marriage gave her no passion, even of the unpleasant sort.

“What was your duty...to this traitor, as you saw it?”

That was simple. “The duty of any wife, to any husband. To provide him with children.”

“You failed to do this.” She didn’t flinch. “Why?”

“I…” Any convoluted story she came up with on the spot would be easily contradicted later on. She didn’t want to betray Renly or her brother, nor anyone like them. She needn’t say the truth to make him hear the truth. “I...I would not speak ill of the dead, Your Grace,” she said, casting her eyes upon the floor in deference.

“You think one ought to speak kindly of a traitor, merely because he’s had a sword put through his heart?” Joffrey asked contemptuously.

“No,” she blurted out. It was a loss of control, but only of her words, and Joffrey probably wanted such a quick and vehement denial. She shook her head a little. She needed to speak again, quickly. “I do..beg your pardon.” Then, inspiration: “The subtleties of politics are often lost on me.” _I'm only a stupid girl_ , she thought hard at him.

There was reassurance, in knowing she knew how to get the enemy go underestimate her.  It calmed her enough that she managed to add: “Renly…” in a tone that was perfectly blase, as she frantically contemplated her options.

She could see no other way. Margaery used her own shame at betraying Renly’s secret to sound sound meek and embarrassed. “I...don’t believe he was interested in the company of women.”

Joffrey looked contemplative. “What makes you say this?”

At this point, Margaery thought it best to divorce from herself entirely and start spouting swill in the most earnest voice she possessed.

“Or maybe the fault was with me,” she said dolefully, “Maybe--”

“No,” Joffrey said, and Margaery knew she had him then. “He was a known...degenerate.”

She touched his arm, so he could feel the thrill of that. “It’s such a relief to hear you say so, Your Grace.” And the words came easily, for in a way, they were true.

“Mmm. I’ve considered making his...perversion punishable by death.”

Margaery had seen men take blows in the yard that landed a moment before they sucked the wind from their stomachs. She blinked, and then all the air had been sucked out of her, though she hadn’t been struck, she hadn’t moved an inch. Her body didn’t seem connected to her at all, and her mind shot forth to a memory, of a blue blanket wrapped around pink flesh, of the warmth and weight of her baby brother pressed against her 6-year-old chest for the first time.

_He can’t do anything unless you let him_ , she thought suddenly. Margaery  jerked her back to herself. She blinked again. She didn’t move an inch. She heard herself say, “As is your right, you are a king.” It seemed the right thing to say.

 

She curtsied, she smiled, she left.

There were still guards outside his door. Of course there were. She walked, calmly, if briskly, back towards her chambers. Where else would she being going? She’d just had a delightful chat with the king. She was fine. She had left his quarters, and her smile was a seam that had split, stuffed to the brim with infatuation for her fiance. She was _fine_.

She didn’t know where she was going. Perhaps she was going to her quarters. That seemed safe. _Not safe, private_ , she heard Grandmother’s stern voice in her head. Not safe. Private.

She widened her smile at a servant girl as she passed, and opened her chamber door. As she pulled it closed the door behind her, she felt a twinge of pain in her arms. From the crossbow, she realized.

Margaery sat down on her bed. _Breathe_ , she told herself, _Think_. Loras' name came to mind immediately. She needed to warn Loras. He needed to...she didn’t know. He was already doing everything he could, she realized in horror. What could he possibly do to hide more? He hadn’t a lover anymore. He hardly looked at his own family, nevermind strangers, let alone in _that_ way. She shook her head. Joffrey hadn’t said anything about Loras, just Renly, and Renly was already dead. _He was a known...degenerate._ The words echoed in her ears. Loras had never said anything about Joffrey speculating about him, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about Joffrey suspecting Renly, either. Loras had plenty of stories mocking Joffrey, but he’d never mentioned anything about Joffrey snickering at him as well. And why would he? Loras had always been proud, and he was telling the tales to make his sister laugh. How could Joffrey have  suspected Renly, without suspecting Loras as well? Renly Baratheon had been a true man, Margaery had seen that easily. Therefore, Joffrey had to know about Loras. There was no other way.

_Gods_ , Margaery thought with mounting panic, _how many at court know?_ There was no telling. If a simpleton like Joffrey had figured it out-- and there were smallfolk, too, people one got careless around, for they were always in the background-- and it was only a few nights ago that he mocked her fear of ‘the spiders--’

Margaery rose. That was it. That was who she needed to talk to. She should have gone straight there.

 

“Grandmother,” she said, once she had hurried to the old woman’s door, “Might I have a word with you?”

Olenna narrowed her eyes from the sofa she was perched on. “You may have several, my dear,” she said. and dismissed her servants once Margaery had been let inside.

 Grandmother had been the one to turn to when Margaery had a fright as a child. To her surprise, Grandmother’s reaction to this ordeal was much the same.

“You were right to come to me,” she said. “I will take care of it.”

“How?” Margaery asked breathlessly.

“Don’t ask questions you’re not meant to know the answer to,” she said testily, then amended, “Not to me, anyway.”

Margaery pressed her lips together. “Very well,” she said. It was a challenge to keep her voice polite. She’d pretended so much already today, and she was tired. But being short with Grandmother would get her nowhere. “May I at least ask how soon you intend to act?”

“I must be approached,” Olenna said, an Margaery was taken aback, for she had expected to be rebuffed again. “An old woman like me, I never get ideas on my own. But I suspect it won’t take long, don’t you fret.”

Margaery, of course, would fret. But she knew, too, that Grandmother was always right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the worst day Loras has ever had, but only by default.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some content warnings for this chapter, semi-spoilery: Panic attacks, manipulative/coercisve behavior of a non-sexual nature/gaslighting. Food and eating are mentioned mostly in passing in this chapter. There's also a scene where a servant is trying to figure out if Loras is asking him to sleep with him, but I tried to make it as clear as possible that the servant genuinely wants to sleep with him, and the servant also backs off when Loras is like 'no.' Additionally, this isn't stated explicitly in text (it will be in a later chapter) but Olenna only put this person in Loras' path, there was no weird implied "sleep with my grandson or your fired" thing. Basically, "eh. I think that kid has a crush on my grandson. I'll send him on an arrand so they bump into each other. Maybe they'll decide to do a thing, maybe they won't, I don't really care." 
> 
> Thanks to saynothingoftheblog for beta-ing, and for cleromancy and hellomynameisgeek offering to beta!

Loras hadn’t slept well. This wasn’t a particular surprise. He hadn’t slept well for months now. His mind kept him up, and when he did manage to fall asleep, he thrashed so much that he often woke in the night after jostling something off the nightstand. Last night, it’d been an ink well. It seemed like he’d only just begun to nod off when a hard knock echoed against the door.

Jerking awake frantically, Loras gasped for air, then slumped back against the pillows once he remembered where he was. _Gods_ , he groaned internally, wiping a hand across his face. The pounding without continued, insistent.

“I’m _up!_ ”  he roared.

The knocking stilled. Still irritated, Loras kicked off what little blankets still covered him and stood up. He paused to splash some water from his wash basin on on his face. Noting that while there were lines beneath them, his eyes weren’t bloodshot, he decided that was good enough and stomped across the room to wrench open the door. _“What?”_

The servant jumped. His green eyes were wide, and Loras recognized the handsome serving boy Grandmother was always complaining about. _He’s not handsome,_ he snapped at himself, and then felt so furious he might have yelled, before he took note of how terrified the boy was. _Gods_ , Loras thought again, but this time felt exasperated with himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to calm down. It wasn’t easy being in Grandmother’s bad books.

“Yes, what is it?” Loras said. The whole arrangement seemed odd, now that he was starting to get his bearings. Why would a serving boy be sent as a messenger? He had to be a messenger-- there’d be no other way he’d dare presume to wake him.

The boy swallowed. “Lady Olenna bid me wake you whilst on my way to the kitchens, to bring out breakfast.”

Loras blinked. “For me?” That wasn’t like Grandmother.

“For all of you,” the boy clarified. “The Lady Olenna wishes you and Lady Margaery to break your fast with her this morning.”

“Ah,” Loras said, his mouth twisting. _That_ sounded like Grandmother. Why send a proper messenger when you could just make a cupbearer do it? It’ll confuse your enemies, Loras could imagine the old woman saying, wagging a finger with one hand and eating a prune in the other. “Tell me, ah--?”

“Rastall,” he supplied.

"Tell me, Rastall, does my Grandmother always seek to break her fast before the Father himself cracks an eye open?”

Rastall smiled apologetically. “The Lady Olenna has always been an early riser, from what I understand, my lord.”

“My condolences.” The quip, which came forth carelessly, made the corner’s of Rastall’s mouth twitch up for a moment. _Gods, boy, she’s not here. Go ahead and laugh. Life’s too short._

Loras sighed. “Am I trusted to find Grandmother’s room myself, or am I supposed to keep you company before you go to the kitchens?”

Rastall blinked, and tilted his head. There was confusion in his green eyes, but he didn’t seem panicked the way he did whenever Grandmother said something unclear.

Loras wasn’t sure what was so puzzling about the question, until the boy’s eyes flickered past Loras, into the bedroom, and then back at Loras, as if asking him something. His expression was hopeful.

Loras then realized exactly what his question had sounded like.

“ _Leave_ ,” he snapped, and slammed the door. He slumped against it, eyes pressed shut. He felt anger lapping against his chest like boiling waves, like the frothing sea that roared loud enough to keep him up at night his first few weeks at Storm’s--

Loras _punched_ the door for good measure.

His breathed heaved for a moment as he stood there, the darkness behind his eyelids somehow helping. _Grandmother_ , he reminded himself.

He stood up, slowly, and shrugged off his night tunic. It took a moment, but he managed to regulate his breathing a bit more. Then, he went to the wardrobe and flicked through until he found the most pristine, uncontroversial garments possible. Most likely he’d still look a mess, with the bags under his eyes, and his stubble-- he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle shaving, after that-- but dressing well would at least give Grandmother the least amount to scrutinize as possible. He loved the old woman, but no one should have to deal with her before noon.

It took perhaps fifteen minutes to finish making himself presentable, but a part of him still fretted about being late when he was finally ushered into his grandmother’s rooms. Grandmother had that effect on people.

The old woman was already seated at a large oak table, Margaery on her right, when he walked in.

“Ah,” Olenna greeted him. “And where’s my footman run off to?”

“I couldn’t say,” Loras said, trying to keep his voice light. “You sent me a cupbearer.”

“Oh, well, what have you,” Olenna said with a shake of her head. “Whoever it is, I do hope he hurries up with the bread before the jam congeals into something one might find in Blackwater Bay.”

Loras snorted. Margaery, looking half-asleep herself, jerked her head up at the noise, and smiled a little when she saw it was her brother making a noise of amusement. “Good morning,” she told him.

“Good morning,” he said, pulling out a chair for himself. The way they table was situated, he was a bit farther down than he would have liked, but there was no helping it. At least what food that awful serving boy wasn’t fetching from the kitchen sat near his end.

And what food it was. Loras suddenly felt more awake. There were apples, plums, cherries, hotcakes--what did they need bread for, if they had hotcakes?-- peaches, kippers, bacon. Lightly crisped bacon, none too black.

“You’ve prepared all my favorites,” he said, stunned.

“Nonsense,” Olenna said crisply, taking a sip of lemonade. It was true that he didn’t like lemonade, at least. He glanced at the platter again; there was nothing to drink, save that and water.

Still. “I know my own favorites, Grandmother, and so do you.” Only because she never forgot anything; he’d never expected her to _do_ anything with that knowledge...

Grandmother rolled her eyes. “An old woman like me couldn’t possibly keep such things in her head,” she said. “Besides, I haven’t prepared anything. We’ve chiefs and kitchen wenches for that sort of thing.”

Margaery chuckled, which put Loras a little more at ease. “Is it my Name Day, only I’ve forgotten?” he asked.

“ _You’re_ not an old woman, now, are you?” Olenna asked haughtily.

Loras surprised even himself, chuckling at that. Especially since he was still a little wary.

Margaery didn’t seem to share his incredulity. She was beaming, because he had laughed; he knew it was that because she’d quickly glanced away when he caught her looking at him. “Now you’ve got me curious, too, Grandmother,” she teased, nibbling at a strawberry.

Olenna shook her head. “I never discuss anything of import before I’ve had my grains.”

Margaery raised her eyebrows.

The hairs on the back of Loras’ arms tingled. _Ah_. Something important to discuss, that involved giving him his favorite foods, denying that was so, and-- he thought, as Rastall swept back into the room, determinedly looking anywhere but at Loras-- sending handsome, willing young men to his door.

As his grandmother picked up a slice of bread from the newly brought tray, Loras suspected that wasn’t the only thing in the room being buttered.

“Wait a moment,” Margaery called, as Rastall turned to leave. “Have you anything else to drink besides the lemonade?” Her consideration made brought a tiny smile to Loras’ lips.

It was Olenna who answered. “Nevermind that,” she told Rastall. “You may go now.”

Margaery blinked. Loras narrowed his eyes.

“But Grandmother,” Margaery said once Rastall had left (for she knew better than to question Olenna in front of servants) “Loras doesn’t care for lemonaid.”

“There are a great many things Loras doesn’t care for. I suspect he’s strong enough to deal with the taste of a harmless little lemon.” It would have been just another quip if Grandmother’s voice weren’t so tired all of a sudden. The tone sent a bolt of fear through Loras, even before Margaery set down her own goblet with a heavy thud. Loras glanced at his sister; she’d gone white as a sheet, eyes round with what looked for all the world like dawning, horrified comprehension.

“Grandmother,” Loras said, the feeling that he was just as old as her creeping through his limbs. “I believe it’s time you told us why we’re here today.”

Margaery had a hand clasped over her own mouth.

Taking a great deal of time to set down her silverware, Olenna finally said. “Yes, I believe so.” She cleared her throat. “We’ve secured the most difficult task of our House-- finding a suitable husband to secure Margaery’s future. With her engagement to Joffrey Baratheon set in stone, I believe that the time has come--”

“Grandmother,” Margaery said, cautiously. Loras held up a hand to silence her, staring intently at Olenna.

“--to focus on preserving the family name,” Olenna continued. “This, of course, involves the sacrament of matrimony, and the creation of sons. I believe,” she said, “I have lined up a suitable prospect for Loras, that will not only  allow him to carry out his duties as heir, but shall also benefit our House tremendously.”

Loras wondered, vaguely, if he’d be allowed to go back to bed after this.

“Who is the girl.” His voice was flat. Like a stone. Like the edge of a sword.

“Sansa Stark,” Olenna said.

Loras closed his eyes.

There’d been dreams, once. Stupid dreams, he supposed. Arianne Martell had yet to be wed, and she was heir to the seat of a great House, one of the ruling houses of the Seven Kingdoms. There had been tension between the houses Martell and Tyrell, but nothing to exacerbate for hundreds of years. Their marriage might have dissolved that strain within a generation. And they were freer, in Dorne. Looser. He might be able to tell his wife, her family-- the family they made together. He wouldn’t have to lie. He’d send her out, find someone who looked like him. He’d kill any man who called his child, ‘bastard.’ It was warm in Dorne. It was warm at Highgarden. They’d have made a good match, he’d always thought.

Sansa Stark came from the bitter cold, and her eyes hungered for him. If the picture of  raw innocence could hunger, that is. She loved him, it was plain. Loved him, and believed in the sculpture he crafted himself into every day. When Sansa Stark said her vows, she would mean every word, and would take his own words to heart. If he told her the truth, it would destroy her. Her face would grow pinched and her heart would grow bitter. Every interaction they had would be an exercise of spite and futility. She might take lovers, one day, but they’d never look like him. She wouldn’t be able to barely be able to stand the sight of him, or else she’d grow frustrated at the notion of a mere substitute for what was rightfully hers. His sons, if she had any, wouldn’t look like him. Her family would be insulted, and her bannermen, and House Tyrell would become laughing stock for the entire kingdom. If he kept his silence, he would spend his days forced to smile at her, until the day the smile became real, but the guilt grew from an ache to a poison. The lies would pile up, and duties would mount, and eventually he’d have to-- he’d have to--

“Loras,” said Margaery. Her voice was low, and urgent. “ _Loras_.”

She had gotten up from the table and knelt down beside his chair, holding his hand. He pressed his eyes shut tight, ashamed, wondering how long she’d been there. His limbs felt very heavy. He looked up at Grandmother.

“...Am I being punished?” he whispered.

Whatever she expected him to say, it wasn’t that. For the first time in his life, he saw his grandmother look taken aback.

Then her face settled into what might have been-- Loras thought he was going to be sick-- pity. "No, child," she said gently. "You're not being punished."

Loras swallowed, trying to fight the bile rising in his throat. "I know that-- that you were unhappy with me.” Everything felt leaden.  “I know I shouldn’t have-- I should have talked to you about it first. I didn’t think you’d approve, and-- that means I shouldn’t have done it, I know that now, I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never do anything like it again, there’s no _reason_ to, he-- he’s gone,” he said aloud, for the first time. He didn’t know if Grandmother would take that as a lapse, but it was the truth, and she had to know he was sincere. “He’s _gone._ I’ll never-- not another, I swear it, I don’t want to, I didn’t this morning, I won’t ever again, _please_.” He closed his eyes, then looked straight into her wizened old face with all the dignity he could muster. “Please,” he said again.

Grandmother held his gaze, and he was grateful. Her face was only solemn now, and the respect of that, when he was shaking uncontrollably, when Margaery was still clutching him onto him as if she feared he might fall apart, meant everything.

“You’ve known this must happen eventually,” Olenna said, not unkindly. “You’re the heir to Highgarden. It is your duty. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Loras watched her say the words, and didn’t flinch. He looked her full in the face, expressionless. Without looking away, he felt for Margaery’s hand and removed it from his own. Then he reached forward, swallowed again,  and poured himself a glass of lemonade.

He lifted the goblet. “To Sansa Stark,” he said.

Olenna raised her eyebrows, and her glass. “To Sansa Stark,” she said.

“ _No_.”

Loras glanced down. Margaery was still at his side, glaring at Grandmother.

“This isn’t what I meant,” Margaery insisted.

Grandmother pursed her lips. “We can discuss this later.”

It was Loras’ turn to raise his eyebrows. “Margaery?” His skin and gone cold, and when looked at her, and her eyes were welling with tears. When she didn’t answer, he turned back to Olenna. “I think,” he said slowly, “I would prefer to discuss this right now.”

The noise Olenna made was a mix between a sigh and a scoff. “I would prefer to eat my breakfast,” she said, scooping some plums onto her plate.

 He looked back at Margaery. “Sister?”

Margaery bit her lip. “I can’t tell you, Loras. I’m sorry.” Her regret shone plainly in her eyes, but that didn’t make it feel any less as if she’d slapped him.

She turned back to Grandmother. “I overreacted.”

“You did this?!”

“No! Never!” she cried.  To Olenna, “Nothing will come of it, words are wind--”

“E- _nough_.” Both of the grandchildren jumped. “Margaery, sit in your chair, you are behaving like a common swineherd’s daughter.”

Loras  didn’t think Grandmother had said anything so harsh to her in years. Margaery flinched, and slunk  back to her place at the table in silence.

“ _Thank_ you,” Olenna said. “Now. This isn’t because of anything _an-y-one_ has said--” she looked at Margaery “--or done.” She looked at Loras. “I meant precisely what I said: this is about duty, a duty that all of us have known since his birth to be Loras’ lot. Sansa Stark is more than just an eligible highborn girl-- her brother is fashioning himself The King in the North. When justice prevails and King Joffrey restores unity to the kingdom, having a Stark in Highgarden will be invaluable for soothing the tensions between our poor, war-torn bannermen and getting the country back on track.”

 _She’s our protection._  He felt numb. If the winds somehow turned, and the Lannisters were defeated, Sansa would be their link back  to the winning court. And if nothing changed, it would be just as Grandmother said: they’d have their hands in both honeypots..

“So.” Olenna said. “Do you consent to the match?”

Loras blinked. He blinked again.

Olenna scoffed. “Come now, boy,” she said gruffly. “Don't be a fool. Surely you know no man in the Seven Kingdoms can be married against his will.”

 _Damn her._ Suddenly, everything was clear. She knew exactly what she was doing, shocking him out of nowhere and then pressing him into what she saw as the only viable option, using his commitment to his house to trap him. Marriage he’d been prepared for, or at least braced for, some day, yes,  but marriages were _planned_.  Prospects were considered and _narrowed down_ , they were _discussed_. Duty was something _handed down_ , not dropped like dead weight on the table at breakfast. Not something flung across the breakfast table so fast he had no choice but to catch it. And he didn’t have a choice. Not now. Because seven hells, _she was right_ , and she knew it.

Her face was indecipherable as she waited for his answer. It made his blood pound all the harder.

“Fine,” Loras agreed, and casually eased the glass of lemonade horizontally so that it soiled the table cloth.

Olenna smiled, paying no heed to the mess between them. “Wonderful,” she said, popping  a cherry off its stem. “Do eat something, won’t you? Gods know you’re the only one who can stand bacon served so rare.”


End file.
